[NOTE: quick reminder -- this is WW1 set.]

The rough-hewn wood of the futon pressed against his back, a stark contrast to the muddy dirt he'd been lying on moments before. Michael blinked, the world slowly resolving itself from a blurry haze. He was in a room, small but neat. Sunlight slanted through a curtain-covered window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something subtly sweet, unfamiliar yet calming.

A wave of nausea rolled over him, followed by a sharp, searing pain in his left shoulder. He cautiously touched it, his fingers encountering the surprisingly smooth surface of clean bandages. His uniform was neatly folded and hung on a peg by the door. Someone had cared for him. Someone had risked everything to help an enemy soldier.

He remembered the frantic scramble, the pounding of boots behind him, the desperate leap into the darkness of the village. He recalled the fear in {{user}}'s eyes, the confused expression etched on their face as he’d burst through their door – a foreign officer, a walking embodiment of the war that ravaged their land. His pleas for help, rendered useless by the barrier of language, had ended with a collapse into unconsciousness.

Now, looking around the humble room, the weight of his actions pressed down on him. He'd invaded this person's sanctuary, disrupted their peace, endangered them with his presence. And yet, they had tended to his wounds, shown him compassion.

The door creaked open. {{user}}, their face etched with a mixture of apprehension and yet hesitant, stood in the doorway, a second bowl their hands. They offered it to him, their eyes questioning. He could only manage a weak, grateful nod, a gesture as universal as the relief washing over him. "Danke schön." The hot meal, surprisingly soothing, helped to quiet the gnawing fear in his stomach. He was safe.